“That’s absurd, Mr. Campbell. That kind of convoluted pseudo-reasoning leads to ridiculous conclusions.”
“Captain, there is no legitimate need to get official approval from anyone, and that tells me that I probably need to call the Italian Foreign Ministry back out here.”
“Very well, let’s stop talking about this and go, Mr. Campbell,” Swanson said suddenly, turning toward his car.
Campbell looked surprised, letting a broad smile slowly dominate his face. “Excellent! To the aircraft, then?”
“NO, sir!” Swanson replied in exasperation, turning back to him. “As I said, we’re going to my office at NAS-One.”
Stuart Campbell maneuvered himself around to look the naval officer in the eye. “Captain, on your honor as an American field grade officer, is President Harris on that C-17 or not?”
“I can’t . . .”
“NO!” Campbell barked, causing Swanson to flinch. “You’re making a representation by your actions. I’m asking for a straightforward statement from you, on your honor, on behalf of the Department of the Navy, on behalf of the American Government, and on the record. Is he on that C-17, or is he still somewhere on this base? If you tell me he’s gone, I’ll leave, based on the honor of your word alone.”
“Sir . . .” Swanson began, hesitating just long enough to register the fleeting internal conflict Campbell was waiting for, “President Harris’s status is classified military information. I am not at liberty to divulge that to you or anyone else.”
Stuart Campbell nodded slowly, his eyes carefully noting Swanson’s slightly accelerated breathing.
“Very well, Captain. I understand thoroughly. John Harris is still here.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Oh, but you did. Very clearly.”
Swanson shook his head as he leveled an index finger at the lawyer, his eyes angry slits. “Get in the car, Mr. Campbell. Now! Against my better judgment I’m going to violate my orders and take you down to the aircraft. And then, sir, you’re going to get your sanctimonious ass off my base. Understood?”
“As you wish, Captain,” Campbell said, noting that Swanson’s radio was in plain view on the dashboard, cancelling any hopes the commander might have of making an emergency warning call to the EuroAir pilots.
Sigonella Naval Air Station Passenger Terminal
There was a young Navy policeman guarding the door to the ramp and the Boeing 737 beyond. He was just a boy in a sharp sailor suit, and little more than nineteen or twenty years old, General Ed Glueck thought. He’d watched the boy carefully for several minutes, trying to discern his level of sophistication, watching as he occasionally looked up to smile at the music on the PA system when it switched to something upbeat.
The general approached him quietly.
“Son?”
“Yes, sir?” the young sailor said, somewhat taken aback to be approached by one of the passengers.
“I want you to take a look at the rank on this ID card,” the general said, handing over his gray U.S. Department of Defense credential card that identified him as a retired brigadier general.
The young man’s eyes grew a bit wider. “Yes, sir, General. What . . . can I do for you?”
The general gently reclaimed the ID card and slipped it back in his wallet as he turned and looked at the milling passengers, speaking conspiratorially out of the side of his mouth.
“I need to get back out to that aircraft.”
The Navy guard inhaled sharply and stiffened as conflicting duties swirled in his mind against the background of orders and limited experience.
This was a general officer! But this was a retired general officer.
“Sir, I . . . I can’t do that . . .”
The general turned and leaned close to the boy’s ear. “This is a matter of national security, son, and neither of us has time to seek formal authority. If your captain was here, I’d talk to him. But I need to slip out there right this minute. This is one of those times you were trained to expect where you have to be brave enough to do what you know is right even without formal authority.”
“But, sir . . .”
“I’m unarmed, and my wife, Joanie, is standing right over there. Obviously I’m not going anywhere without her, and I can’t be up to no good.”
“Yes, sir, but my orders . . .”
“Are superseded by mine. I’m giving you the authority. You do realize that a general officer is never off active duty, by the way?” he fibbed, knowing full well that only five-star generals were never retired, and with the death of General Omar Bradley decades before, there were no more living five-stars.
“Really, sir?”
“Just open the door. I’ll be back in ten minutes. All I need to do is confer with the captain of that airliner. If your captain gets upset, I’ll explain everything. I outrank him anyway, don’t I?”
“I suppose.”
“Didn’t they teach you that? A star beats an eagle?”
The young man nodded and swallowed as he surveyed the room and quietly turned the knob on the door behind him, letting Edwin Glueck slip into the cool and humid night air.
The distance to the aircraft was minimal, and he was in sufficiently good shape to jog to the airstairs. The forward door to the Boeing was closed but not sealed, and he knocked gently.
The man he’d suspected was a Secret Service agent peeked around the edge of the door and he slipped his ID card through. There were voices in the entryway before the door swung open and the man handed the card back.
“What do you need, General Glueck?” the man asked.
“Access to the captain.”
“Why?”
“Because I know the President is still here and I’ve got a terminal full of U.S. military veterans ready to help protect him.”
TWENTY-ONE
Laramie, Wyoming—Monday—11:45 A.M. Local
The last direct flight of the day to Europe from Denver International was scheduled to leave in less than three hours, and Jay Reinhart was still at his kitchen counter in Laramie, a hundred fifty road miles from the airport.
“There’s got to be another way,” he said to the travel agent whose help he’d enlisted on his cell phone.
“No, and I doubt you’d make it anyway. That snowstorm has U.S. two eighty-seven closed over the pass, and I hear there’s a real mess on the interstate south of Cheyenne.”
“How about Chicago? Could I fly through there? Or . . . or Atlanta?”
“Sure, but any transatlantic connections will probably leave tomorrow morning, getting you in late tomorrow evening.”
“Dallas?”
“Same story. I can’t even get you on a commuter to Denver in time. But, look, may I make a suggestion?”
“Are you kidding? I’m desperate.”
“Charter an airplane to take you to Denver International. Even a Cessna can make it in an hour.”
“Charter . . .”
“An airplane. Yes, sir. It’s expensive, but if you really want to get on that last flight tonight, it’s the only way.”
The thought of fighting panic for eleven hours in a jumbo jet had been bad enough. Suddenly he found himself battling images of crashing to his death in a small jet, and a small wave of nausea pulsed through him.
“Mr. Reinhart?”
“What?”
“Did you hear me?”
“Ah . . .” He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I . . . I’m sorry. That’s the only way, huh?”
He thanked the agent and yanked the phone book out of the desk to flip to air charters, trying to keep his mind on anything but the fact that he was trying to pay money to get himself inserted into a small aircraft that would undoubtedly plunge to earth at the first opportunity.
Straighten up! People do this every day!
There were three charter operators listed, but none could help.
“I’m sorry, sir. All our birds are out for the day, including our Citation.”
“Your w
hat?”
“It’s a jet.”
“Oh. Could you recommend someone in Denver who could come get me?”
“We tried that an hour ago for another customer, Mr. Reinhart. There might be somebody available, but we couldn’t find anyone. There’s some big function going on in Aspen for the rich and shameless, and it’s sucked all the charter aircraft out of the area.”
“I’ll pay double,” he heard himself saying, feeling almost giddy at the thought of paying for his own demise.
“Sorry.”
Jay replaced the phone with his mind racing. There had to be another way. No time to drive, no charters, no commuters, but . . .
The thought of a conversation with one of his students during the fall semester flashed in his head. David somebody. He was a private pilot and had his own plane and they were arguing in good-natured fashion over whether humans should fly, with his vote firmly in the negative. Was there any remote chance, Jay wondered, that he might be available for hire? He would eat the requisite crow as long as he could get to Denver in time.
Dammit! What was the name? David . . . David . . . Carmichael! That’s it!
He punched in the number of the University’s registrar and begged for David Carmichael’s number using the first excuse that came to mind.
“Good enough for me, Professor,” the lady on the other end said, reading him two numbers.
The first didn’t answer. The second one caught the graduate student between classes on his cell phone. Jay explained the situation and his desperation.
“Ah, I don’t know, Professor Reinhart, the weather’s kind of gamey today.”
“It’s too bad to fly?”
“Well . . . probably not, but I’ve also got a class.”
“How about if I get you out of it? I can’t tell you how important this is, David. This literally involves the life of a U.S. President.”
“You said that. Wow. Well, uh, as long as the forecast isn’t too bad . . .”
“You do still own your own plane?”
“Yes, I do. And it’s instrument equipped, and I’m an instrument pilot, but you still want to be careful, y’know?”
“Absolutely. Look, I hate to push, but I have no other way to get to Denver fast enough. So can you do it for me?”
“I think I’m legal for passengers . . . I haven’t flown for a few weeks, but I can probably be ready in about an hour.”
“How about forty minutes? I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”
“I can’t accept money, sir, except to pay for gas. I’m only a private pilot, not a commercial pilot.”
“All right. But is forty minutes okay?”
“You want to go to Denver International?”
“Yes.”
“I’d better get moving, then. I have to check the weather and file a flight plan. Where can I call you back, Professor?”
“Let’s just meet out there, David.”
There was a hesitation. “Oh. Okay.” Carmichael passed directions on how to find the so-called fixed-base operator, or “FBO,” at the airport where his plane would be waiting.
“I’ll . . . see you there, Professor.”
The thought of diving into a business suit without benefit of showering or shaving was anathema, but there was no time for anything else. The airspace in his bedroom was momentarily filled with socks and underwear and shirts as he tossed the minimum requisites into a suitcase and compressed his morning routine into ten minutes before racing out the door to the garage and into his car.
The image of his cell phone on the counter popped into his mind and he ran back to retrieve it, along with an extra battery and the charger, then returned to the car and opened the garage door on an overcast, gray sky—a reality he was trying hard to ignore.
David Carmichael had been a good student. He’d earned an A. Surely he was as good a pilot as he was a student. Surely he could find Denver in an overcast sky. Maybe they could fly low and follow the roads.
Carmichael was waiting for him at the door of the private terminal, a green headset in one hand and a small flight bag in the other. Jay forced himself to ignore the worried look on the young man’s face.
“They’re warming up the engine right now with a heat cart,” he announced.
“I don’t know what that means,” Jay said. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” Carmichael said. “But my plane’s been cold-soaked for the last week, so that’ll help get the engine started.”
“Okay. This is a jet?”
David Carmichael’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “A jet? I wish!”
“What then?”
“It’s a Cessna 172, Professor. A single-engine propeller driven four-seater. What’d you think?”
“I . . . don’t know much about private planes,” Jay managed, his stomach contracting to the size of a pea.
“Professor,” Carmichael began carefully, recognizing the panicked look on Jay Reinhart’s face as he placed a hand on his professor’s shoulder, “this is a great, stable airplane. In fact, the Cessna 172 is the only aircraft in history to ever successfully penetrate Soviet air defenses.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Jay managed.
Carmichael smiled slightly and shook his head. “Back in the eighties, some loon of a guy from Germany flew a 172 into Russia and landed in Red Square, and the entire Soviet Air Force couldn’t shoot him down.”
“Oh. Yeah. I think I remember,” Jay said, his eyes falling on the tiny high-wing aircraft he’d spotted just out front on the ramp. He suddenly realized it was the very one David Carmichael was referring to. It didn’t look big enough to carry a passenger, he thought. In fact, it didn’t look big enough to carry a pilot!
“Weather okay?” Jay managed.
“Well . . .” David Carmichael began. “We’ll have to go on an instrument flight plan. We’ll be in the clouds all the way, but I think we’ll be okay. No real icing predicted below twelve thousand, so, ah . . . as long as we don’t encounter any, the turbulence shouldn’t be too bad.”
“What do you mean, icing?”
“I can’t fly in known icing conditions. I don’t have any de-icing boots.”
“Boots?”
“Rubberized devices on the leading edge—the front edge—of the wings that inflate to break off ice.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll shoot an ILS to Denver.”
The acronym meant nothing but Jay nodded. “Okay.”
“It should take us about an hour.”
Jay checked his watch, anxious for something to do other than think of the flight ahead. “We’d better get moving.”
David Carmichael reached out and caught his arm. “Professor, this is really vital, right? There’s no time to drive and no alternate flight you could take?”
Jay shook his head. There was a warning tone in Carmichael’s voice, but Jay forced himself to ignore it, fearful he might change his mind. The image of Stuart Campbell closing in on John Harris loomed larger than his fear of flight. Surely David Carmichael was just reacting to the pasty look on his face. A pilot wouldn’t fly unless it was safe.
David Carmichael sighed and glanced toward the airplane, then back at his passenger. “Professor, you might want to make a quick bathroom stop first.”
Jay looked at him suspiciously, trying to form a coherent question as wild images flashed in his head.
“Why?” he managed.
“Because,” Carmichael began carefully, “there’s no bathroom aboard.”
“Oh.”
“The plane’s too small.”
“Of course,” Jay heard himself say. “I’ll . . . be right back.”
“It’s over there, sir,” Carmichael prompted, pointing to the men’s room.
Aboard EuroAir Flight 42, on the Ground,
Sigonella Naval Air Station, Sicily
The call on the satellite phone had come as a complete surprise, and for a second, Craig wasn’t sure how to react.
“What was that?”
Alastair asked as Craig replaced the receiver.
“One of the Navy security guys telling me Captain Swanson is on his way back here with that lawyer, Campbell.”
Headwind (2001) Page 17